You Can't Kill Me
by batsareamazing
Summary: Sam and Dean Winchester are about to go back to America after trying to prevent one of the seals from being broken, but a phone call from an old friend of their dad keeps them in England. He wants them to help out a friend of his - John Watson, who's being haunted by his "dead" friend, Sherlock Holmes...


"Yeah, ok. We'll be in touch."

Sam Winchester sighed and put down the phone.

"We've got a job," he said tiredly.

"Seriously?" Dean replied in annoyance. "We came here to stop the seal from being broken, that's all. We're supposed to be going back to America tomorrow!"

"Yeah, I know," his brother replied. "But that was an old friend of Dad's. Mike Stamford or something - no idea how they knew each other. But anyway, apparently one of Mike's buddies from med school has got the ghost of his dead flatmate following him around London. It could be our sort of thing."

"Yeah, or it could be some crazy paranoid dude like it is nine times out of ten," Dean said exasperatedly. "Come on Sammy, we've got a freakin' apocalypse to prevent."

Sam sighed. "I told Mike we'd check it out tomorrow."

"Fine," Dean grumbled. "Where do we go?"

"The name's John Watson and the address is 221B Baker Street."

"I still think this is stupid," muttered Dean as they stood on the doorstep of 221B Baker Street the next day.

"Yeah, well that's just too bad," Sam snapped.

He rapped the door knocker. A couple of seconds later, a short, sandy-haired man stood before them, leaning on a cane and looking suspiciously at the brothers.

"Are you John Watson?" Dean asked.

"Yes. Sorry, but who are you?"

"I'm Sam Winchester, and this is my brother Dean," said Sam, elbowing Dean out of the way. "Mike Stamford sent us."

The man's face cleared of confusion, although he still looked troubled. "Yes, Mike told me you were coming. I suppose you'd better come in."

Sam and Dean looked around as they entered the small apartment at the top of the stairs. They were standing in a living room crowded with all sorts of strange artefacts - leftover takeaway boxes, curious items that looked like they had come from all over the world, books on a range of subjects from medicine to identification of minerals in soil, and, sitting in the centre of the mantelpiece, a human skull.

John looked embarrassed. "Sorry about the mess," he said. "I haven't gotten around to cleaning up after- stuff happened."

The Winchesters remained silent. Whoever this flatmate had been, he had obviously meant a lot to the man standing before them.

John rubbed his eyes. He hadn't been getting much sleep lately.

"So... I suppose you want to know about Sherlock?"

"Sherlock - your flatmate?" Sam asked.

The short man nodded.

"Yes please. Tell us everything you can," said Dean.

"So, I suppose you know all about Sherlock Holmes? It was in all the newspapers. Headline news," said John with a weary and slightly cynical smile.

Sam and Dean looked at each other and shrugged.

"We're not from around here, Mr Watson. Could you fill us in?"

John sighed, and began.

"Sherlock Holmes was a consulting detective. The only one in the world, he always said. He'd meet you for the first time, and would be able to tell you everything about yourself. He was a dick but-" John closed his eyes briefly. "He was brilliant too."

"How did Sherlock die, Mr Watson?" Sam prompted gently.

"Moriarty," John replied instantly. "Jim Moriarty. He set out to destroy Sherlock - to rip down his credulity, to frame him as a fraud. He wanted everyone to believe that Sherlock Holmes was a fake. And they did. Even I did, for a minute..." he trailed off.

"But now I know he wasn't. It's impossible. I don't know why Sherlock jumped off that building, but it wasn't because he had been exposed. Maybe he couldn't stand the thought that no one believed in him, I don't bloody know. But it wasn't because he was a fake."

John Watson glared at the brothers. "It's Moriarty's fault that Sherlock is dead. I'd almost think that this whole thing was because of him - but he's dead too. So I don't know what to think."

Sam and Dean glanced at each other.

"So what's going on?" Dean asked. "Mike said you'd been seeing him around or something."

John sighed. "Yeah," he said. "I must have seen him at least ten times by now. Only for a few seconds at a time, but it's definitely him. He even wears the same coat as he used to."

Sam leaned forwards slightly. "Are you quite sure that you weren't, uh, imagining him? I mean, you've been under a lot of strain. Are you sure it wasn't just your mind playing tricks on you?"

He spoke gently, afraid of insulting or angering the man. But John didn't react.

"Listen. I know what I saw, and I know there's no way to convince you that I saw it. I've seen Sherlock Holmes walking around London, and that's impossible because Sherlock Holmes is dead. I've never believed in ghosts, but apparently you've met them, and right now I can't see many other explanations for what's happening. So I understand if you don't believe me, but I could really use some help right now because –"his voice broke slightly. "Because I just want it to be over."

The brothers shifted awkwardly in their seats and glanced at each other, apparently having a whole conversation with their eyes. After a few seconds, Sam spoke.

"I think we can help.

Late that night, Sam and Dean pulled up to the gates of the graveyard in the Impala. Before getting out, Dean turned to his brother. "Are you sure about this?" he asked. "We're not exactly going on much."

Sam shrugged. "I know," he said. "But I got the feeling that John wouldn't have said anything unless he was sure. And if there is a spirit haunting him, the least we can do is track it down before it turns vengeful."

"Fair enough," Dean conceded, and with that, they got out of the car and walked over to meet John.

He looked nervous as they approached, and kept looking around for signs of life.

"Thanks for helping," he said. "But what exactly are you planning on doing again?"

"We're going to dig up your friend's grave and burn his bones," Dean replied bluntly.

John looked like he was about to say something, but then decided against it.

"Look, Mr Watson, you don't have to be here," Sam said. "He's only been dead for a few years, so it, um, won't just be bones. It's probably best if we just deal with it from here."

John took a deep breath. "No," he said. "I'll stay. It feels right."

Sam glanced at Dean, who nodded. "OK."

After a few minutes of standing in the chilly mid-winter air, John was starting to wish he's gone home after all. He was freezing, even in his warmest sweater, and he was dreading the prospect of seeing what remained of Sherlock's face. However, eventually there was a hollow thud as the spade hit the coffin. Dean looked up at the two men who stood on the ground above.

"Ready?" he asked John.

He nodded.

Dean stabbed at the coffin with his spade. It splintered open to reveal…

Nothing.

The three men stared in disbelief at each other. John rose, rubbing his eyes in bemusement.

"But – how-?" he mumbled. The two brothers exchanged looks of total confusion.

"John, what-" Sam started to ask. But before he could finish, there was a noise behind them. They whirled around, barely hearing Dean's muffled complaints of "what is it? I can't see!"

There, standing before them was a man wearing a long, dark coat. It was hard to make out his features and Sam had no idea who he was, but John obviously did. His breath caught and he started forward slightly before coming to a halt and simply staring in disbelief.

"Hello, John," the man said, a note of gleeful satisfaction in his voice.

Sherlock Holmes had returned.

Notes:

1. This is written for my secret santa person. Sorry it's late, but merry Christmas anyway!

2. I don't own Sherlock or Supernatural (surprising, I know)

3. Fanfic name comes from the title of a song by Lene Lovich

4. I might continue this, but only if anyone wants me to and if I can think of something to happen next :)


End file.
